Will o' the Whisper
by Wilusa
Summary: Duncan MacLeod has disappeared...and what's happened to him is worse than anything his friends can imagine. Part of my main universe, set a few years after "Land of My Birth."
1. Chapter 1

DISCLAIMER: _Highlander_ is the property of Davis/Panzer Productions or a successor corporation; no copyright infringement is intended.

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Duncan MacLeod hated tearing himself away from the convivial crowd and good, live music in Le Blues Bar. On nights like this he half-regretted having purchased riverfront property a few years back and moved his barge miles upriver. But he'd done it, so now he faced a longish drive home, with a busy day planned for tomorrow.

_Probably shouldn't risk drinking more, anyway. There was something to be said for the era when I lived in little one-horse towns, and could stagger home without posing a threat to anyone!_

He waved a cheery goodbye to Joe Dawson - who was strumming his guitar at the time - and took his leave.

The bar was so popular that he'd been forced to park almost a block away. The street was deserted at this late hour. But it was a beautiful fall night, and he was enjoying his solitary stroll...

Until he came abreast of a pitch-dark alley - and heard, from within it, a woman's screams.

_It could be a trap._

Seasoned Immortals knew _anything_ out of the ordinary could be a trap.

But it was much more likely that a woman really was being raped or beaten. He had no choice - he threw caution to the winds, and raced up the alley.

When it was too late to turn back - which he wouldn't have done, anyway - he sensed another Immortal.

By now his eyes were well enough adjusted to the darkness that he could see the man standing before him, sword in hand. Couldn't make out the face...or see a woman, either on the ground or cowering nearby.

The woman could have fled. But...

_Those screams came when I neared the alley. Could've been a recording! He couldn't have sensed me at that distance...so he must have had a mortal tail me from the bar and call his cell phone when I got there. Damn!_

He didn't take time even to draw his sword, let alone announce, "I'm Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod." He dove to one side and flattened himself against the wall of a building - just as he heard the faint _pop_ emitted by a gun with a silencer.

He had the momentary satisfaction of knowing the bullet meant for his back had struck the other Immortal square in the chest.

But then the forms of a half-dozen mortals materialized out of the darkness. As a hail of silenced bullets ripped into him, his last conscious thought was _No! It can't end this way! Can't I at least know __**who's**__ going to take my Quickening?_


	2. Chapter 2

Three hellish weeks had passed since Duncan MacLeod walked out of Le Blues Bar...and disappeared.

Joe Dawson knew he'd never be able to forgive himself. _Why didn't I really Watch him, instead of letting him Watch himself and tell me about it? Even if I couldn't have prevented what happened, we'd at least know what it was!_

Joe, as MacLeod's closest friend in Paris at the time, had filed a Missing Person report with the police. MacLeod was so well-known that not filing one would have attracted unwanted attention. But the man and his car had seemingly vanished without a trace. His cell phone hadn't pinged off any tower after he left Joe's bar; nor had there been any use of his credit cards or ATM card. There'd been no evidence of a struggle in the neighborhood of the bar. Also no evidence of a struggle aboard MacLeod's barge or near it - no way of knowing whether he'd gotten home that night. If he had been there, he hadn't logged on his desktop computer. That would have been unusual for him, but not inconceivable, since he would have arrived home late at night and meant to leave early in the morning.

His latest interest was archaeology. He'd planned to go to Spain with a group of similarly eager amateurs, and assist the pros in a dig at a site associated with Neanderthals. He'd confided to Joe, "I don't expect we'll find anything there but bones - maybe some tools or weapons. But what I'm really looking for is ancient art, on cave walls or pottery. Looking for anything I might recognize as showing beheadings and Quickenings! I want to find out how far back we Immortals go."

Joe remembered thinking _He's so interested, so involved, in everything! At a good point in his life right now...and he's seen enough bad times that he can really appreciate the good ones_.

The police had given Joe the usual runaround - telling him that when an able-bodied man goes missing and there's no evidence of foul play, the probable explanation is that he's taken off of his own free will. It didn't help that the police knew MacLeod. He'd turned up in the middle of countless strange situations, but they'd never had grounds for arresting him. Joe suspected they'd be pleased if they'd seen the last of him.

They did agree - grudgingly, Joe thought - to drag the river. But when they determined nothing as large as MacLeod's car was in it, they refused to make a further search for his body.

Dealing with the police was worrisome in itself. Joe wanted them to find MacLeod...or if he was dead, his remains. But if they probed too deeply into his background, they'd discover it was faked.

Joe's Watcher superiors - few in number, because he was high in the chain of command himself - had interrogated him at length, peppering him with questions that bordered on the ridiculous. Had MacLeod been concerned about any specific enemies recently? Was there any possibility he'd been "impaired" when he left the bar that night - either from too much drink, or because someone might have slipped him a mickey? Any chance he'd been unarmed - left his sword in his car, or even at home?

Joe got the impression that while they were trying to hold in their irritation - because they knew how he was hurting - they really blamed him for this crisis.

_As they should._

The Watchers reported that none of their operatives had seen an Immortal behead MacLeod, or have any contact with him. Nor were there rumors of anyone's boasting about having killed him.

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The Immortals closest to MacLeod had rushed to Paris - Methos coming from England, Richie from Canada, Nick Wolfe from the U.S. A tearful Amanda had called Joe from Jamaica to tell him she wasn't coming - solely because Nick would be there. He had bitter feelings regarding her, and she knew her presence would make this ordeal even worse for him.

"I don't understand it," she said mournfully. "It's not just that I made him Immortal against his will. He's vowed not to take heads - but he's turned against me because I _didn't_ hunt down and behead Julian Heller centuries ago. He's angry because he had to do it, and because Heller had killed so many innocents over the years. But doesn't he realize enemies he spares may kill a lot of people too?"

Joe's heart ached for her. But he couldn't tell her - wasn't free to tell her - what the real problem was. That Heller had been Nick's father, and Nick was tormented by the knowledge that he'd unwittingly committed patricide. He wished, if it was the only alternative, that he'd never been born.

Methos, Richie, and Nick grimly bottled up their own misery, and set about contacting everyone they knew - mortal or Immortal - to ask for news about MacLeod, and spread the word that his friends were looking for him. For the first few days they rushed frenetically around Paris and its environs. Then they settled down in Le Blues Bar - which was, by then, closed and shuttered - and phoned everyone they could think of who hadn't been called a dozen times before.

Then they talked about MacLeod. When Joe mentioned his interest in the Neanderthals - which the others had already known about, since they spoke with him frequently - Richie said, "He's interested in _both_ the past and the future. He's told me he hopes to live long enough to travel to the stars!"

They were still being careful, at that point, to refer to him in the present tense.

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But then they'd begun expressing their guilt feelings.

Joe admitted, "I didn't even wave goodbye to him that last night. He waved to me, but I just gave a nod in his direction - didn't care enough to take a hand off my stupid guitar. And I may never see him again...

"I should have been Watching him, damn it! The truth is, there's no living Immortal who could have defeated him in a fair fight. And if the fight was an unfair one, I would have intervened and helped him. The hell with the 'rules'!"

"You didn't do anything wrong, Joe," Methos said quietly. "You've been a wonderful friend, for years. And no Immortal can lead even a halfway normal life if he knows he's constantly being spied on.

"I don't know what sort of mess MacLeod got caught up in that night, or the next morning. But if you'd been on the scene, he might have died trying to protect you. How would you feel about _that_ - if you'd even survived?"

Richie blurted out, "It's killing me that I didn't spend more time with him! Like a fool, I took for granted that I'd have way more years with my Immortal father than with my mortal wife. Much as I love her, I shouldn't have moved so far away from Mac."

Methos told him, "I know that if he's gone, you'll always have regrets, Richie. But it was the right move! Your first obligation is to that little son of yours. And I know you and MacLeod talked almost every day. He and I talked a lot too, and he loved telling me all the things you and your family were doing. He didn't feel he was missing anything at all."

Nick said bluntly, "If he's dead, I'm to blame. He stopped taking heads, because I wasn't doing it. Someone may have been able to kill him because he refused to strike a killing blow."

Methos had an answer for that, too. "No, I'm sure that isn't what happened. He'd given a lot of thought to the powers he received when he took Jacob Kell's Quickening, after Kell had taken the Quickenings of all those old Immortals in the Sanctuary. _He_ could control the powers inside him, but he knew the world would be in danger if his Quickening went to someone who couldn't. He told me he'd decided that if it was the only way to avoid being beheaded, he would behead the other guy."

Joe noticed that Methos - who might, inwardly, be the most ravaged of all of them - wasn't voicing any regrets of his own. _Does he wish he'd found a way to meet his son, and become his friend, centuries earlier? That he'd told him they were father and son? That he hadn't moved to England to prevent the Watchers' noticing he wasn't aging? _

_What if he'd been here in the bar that night, and left with Mac? Maybe he would have signed on for the archaeological dig too. If they'd been planning to go somewhere together early the next day, one of them might have crashed at the other's place, and Mac might not have been alone at all._

Of course, Methos might _not_ have signed on for that dig. He'd told the others he had a "gut feeling" there were no Immortals among the Neanderthals. To Joe, he'd once confided, "I keep trying to remember my youth, but I can't get it into focus. I think I was taught something about the origin of our kind, and it didn't begin with our looking like anything but anatomically modern humans. But I can't recall any more than that. And what I was told may just have been a legend, a story that originally began with 'Maybe it happened this way...' "

Whatever bleak thoughts Methos might be having now, he kept to himself.

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The beautiful fall weather had seemingly vanished along with MacLeod.

Or, more accurately, two weeks after his disappearance. That was when Paris began being pounded by torrential rains.

Joe had welcomed the cloudbursts. They suited his mood. _I don't care if the Seine overflows its banks and drowns the whole goddam city. Let it take us!_

But now, by the end of another week, even he had to admit that what they were experiencing was...too much. Whenever the rain let up, it was replaced by hail the size of golf balls. There was a real chance of the river's causing serious damage. Gale-force winds had battered the city for days; now the storm had been upgraded, and was being called a hurricane.

Just about all of Paris was now as "closed and shuttered" as the bar. The public was being warned to stay off the roads - stay indoors, if at all possible! And the power was out almost everywhere. By now everyone's cell phone was useless, with no means of recharging them. _Like temporarily "dead" Immortals_, Joe thought bitterly.

So all communication was dependent on still-functioning battery-powered radios and TVs, and landline phones that weren't dependent on electricity.

Fortunately, the phone behind Joe's bar was of that type.

_Un_fortunately, for men desperate to hear news of a lost friend, it hadn't rung for days.

Only one good thing had happened during those wretched weeks. Nick had questioned Amanda's absence; and when he heard Joe's explanation of why she hadn't come, he'd broken down in tears. He'd phoned her in Jamaica, told her everything, and apologized for having been so hard on her. Told her that this crisis had brought him to his senses - helped him realize the value of friendship, and the foolishness of throwing it away. He'd urged her to join them in Paris, and she'd promised she would.

Now the phone rang - and they all jumped. News, good or bad, about MacLeod?

No. It was just Amanda...sadly telling them she _couldn't_ make it to Paris, because the airport was closed.

They went back to their silent brooding. The only one who seemed to be doing anything, Joe realized, was Methos. He sat alone with a battery radio, compulsively flipping from station to station.

_Why? They all just seem to be carrying fucking weather reports..._

And then Joe had the grim thought _Hell. He's trying to find one with other kinds of news. Whether anyone, anywhere, has found a headless corpse._

As he was absorbing that, Richie suddenly got to his feet and announced, "I'm gonna check Mac's barge."

When they all turned to stare at him, he said quickly, "No, I'm not imagining I'll find him there! I know that if someone had been holding him prisoner and he escaped, he wouldn't just go home, without a word to anyone. He'd know we would have been looking for him, worried out of our minds, and he'd get in touch with us right away. Storm or no storm.

"I just want to make sure the barge is all right, hasn't come loose from its moorings and floated down the river."

Joe said gently, "If it has, Richie, there isn't anything you can do about it, in this weather."

"I know that. But if it _hasn't_, I can fasten everything more securely."

"They're advising everyone to stay off the roads -"

Then Joe realized Richie wouldn't be driving a car. The first thing he'd done on arriving in Paris was rent his preferred type of vehicle: a motorcycle. He'd expected to be shuttling between the city and the barge.

"Okay, before you say it, I know they're thinking mostly of cars. But a bike is even more likely to be blown off the road."

"Yeah, but _less_ likely to cause serious injury to other people if it is blown off. So I take a few tumbles. So what? Wind never blew anyone's head off!"

"It's pouring rain. You'll be soaked -"

He'd realized that argument wouldn't work before the words were even out of his mouth.

Richie said in a tight, clipped voice, "That barge is my father's _home_."

Then he strode to the door. Even getting it open - and closed behind him - was a Herculean task, with the raging wind. Outside, he could barely stay on his feet.

But moments later, they saw and heard his motorcycle roaring away. It listed precariously to one side, but didn't topple over.

A mere ten minutes after that, Nick announced, "I'm going out, too."

"Wh-what?" Joe stared at him in disbelief. Looked quickly at Methos - but the older Immortal was still absorbed in tinkering with the radio.

"I won't be driving," Nick continued. "Where I'm going is close enough that I can walk. With a heavy coat on, I probably won't get blown off my feet. At least, not blown any distance."

"_Why_ do you want to go out in this weather? Something I didn't think to mention to Richie - we at least have a working phone here. If you go out in the storm, you'll be out of touch with everyone!"

Nick looked embarrassed. "Well, the truth is, I want to go somewhere to, uh, uh" - he swallowed hard, and finally got the words out - "to pray."

"You want to _pray?_" Joe was stupefied. "You can do that right here - I've been doing a lot of it myself! We can even pray together, if you want to."

Nick shook his head. "No. I realize this will sound silly, but I want to pray in St. Joseph's Chapel. Because...because...I told you it was going to sound silly...I went there twice with Mac." Now, Joe saw, the younger man was fighting back tears. "He took me there so he could tell me about his old friend Darius. I know, for him, the place was important because of Darius. But for me, it's important because of _him!_ A link with him..."

_My God_, Joe realized. _That chapel is for him what the barge is for Richie. Something to cling to...a stage, for both of them, in facing the reality of their having lost Mac._

He didn't try to argue any more. Just said quietly, "Of course. I see that now. Be careful out there, okay? And say a few prayers on my behalf - maybe they _are_ more likely to be heard when they're said in church!"

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Nick was barely out the door when Methos said in a flat, toneless voice, "I'm glad they're gone."

"Wh-why?" Joe had a sick feeling he didn't want to know.

"So they won't have to hear what _you're_ going to do next." The eyes that met his seemed very, very old. "I'm sorry to put this on you, Joe. But the call will have to come from you, not me."

"What call?"

"To the Watchers... Did you guess why I was trying so many radio stations? I wanted to find out how bad this storm is, how far it's spread. It's affecting all of France, Spain, and Portugal. No deaths or serious injuries reported yet, but it's only a matter of time."

"That's terrible." Joe had been too caught up in their _other_ problem to even wonder about the weather beyond Paris. "But what does it have to do with the Watchers?"

"They've been checking two things," Methos reminded him. "Whether anyone was seen killing MacLeod, and whether there are rumors circulating about what happened to him - like a killer's bragging.

"You'll have to tell them to check for something else. Any Immortal in this region whose behavior has changed recently, in a bad way - probably, a known bad guy having become much worse. Almost certainly, it's someone who's showing signs of being dangerously insane.

"Remember my saying MacLeod had told me he _would_ take heads now, if he saw it as the only way to avoid losing his? Because of what he'd taken from Kell and the Sanctuary Immortals?"

"Yes." Joe shuddered. "He told me that, too. But I never really thought about the possibility of his dying, let alone what might follow..."

"Think about it now," Methos said somberly. "Whatever happened, he evidently didn't have a chance to defend himself. And these weather phenomena aren't natural! They're being caused by someone who's just flailing around mentally, wielding powers he can't control and may not even realize he has.

"The Watchers have to find this guy, Joe. Find him fast. And have a mortal behead him, to put an end to it. If they don't, he may wreck the continent...or the whole planet."


	3. Chapter 3

A thoroughly drenched Nick Wolfe stumbled into St. Joseph's Chapel, and gratefully took a seat. He was, as he'd expected, the sole worshipper on this brutal day.

Once he'd caught his breath, he knelt.

_Oh, yes. I was right to come here._

He could no longer hear the howling winds. And for some reason, the place itself filled him with a sense of peace. He closed his eyes, let himself remember being there with MacLeod...and could almost feel MacLeod still there, kneeling next to him.

He prayed - silently, fervently - that by some miracle, the Highlander might yet be found alive. But if that couldn't be, that the kin and friends who were agonizing over him would find the strength to go on. To live as he had lived.

He thought of Darius...and directed prayers _to_ Darius._ If "saints" exist, he surely is one, even though he'll never be canonized._

He had no idea how long he'd been there when he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Mr. Wolfe? Nick Wolfe?"

He looked up quickly. "Uh, yes?"

The man standing there was a priest - gray-haired, probably in his sixties. Even as Nick realized he'd seen him before, the priest said, "You may not remember me - Father Robert Beaufort. Duncan MacLeod introduced us..."

"Oh yes, I remember." They'd seen Beaufort, briefly, both times he'd been there with Mac.

"I didn't expect to see anyone here today," the priest continued. "But knowing you're a friend of Duncan's, I can understand why you're praying. Have you learned anything about what's happened to him? I've been praying for him, night and day, since I heard he was missing."

Nick shook his head. "No. I'm sorry I can't give you any good news. I've been with the people closest to him, and we still haven't heard a thing."

He thought that would be the end of the conversation. But after a sad shake of his own head, Beaufort said, "Will you come in the sacristy with me, Mr. Wolfe? I need to talk to you."

Nick went willingly. He assumed the priest merely wanted to reminisce about Mac. _And talking about him might be good...for both of us._

He wasn't prepared for what came next.

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After carefully closing the sacristy door behind them, Beaufort gestured to him to have a seat. Then he said, "I know about Immortals, Mr. Wolfe. I've known what Duncan is for years...and I know you're Immortal, too."

"Me?" Mac had told Nick that he'd shared his own secrets with Beaufort. But he hadn't told the priest anything about Nick other than his name. "Okay, Father...since you're a good friend of Mac's, I don't mind admitting that's true. I'm an Immortal. But I'm sure Mac didn't tell you. Who did?"

"You'll find that hard to believe," the priest said quietly. "It's part of a long story...so I'd better start at the beginning.

"I'm sure you know Darius treasured Duncan's friendship. And you probably also know he had certain _powers_. Because he'd taken the Quickening of that Immortal holy man at the gates of Paris, long ago. He could sometimes see the future...not in detail, maybe, but at least in broad outline.

"Back in the early Nineties, he seemed to know he was destined to die soon. He told me that in the event of his death, I was to give Duncan an ancient chalice he sometimes used. There were very specific instructions! I wasn't to give Duncan the chalice until I was sure he was on reasonably good terms with another Immortal priest, Liam Riley. Darius thought Duncan might pass the chalice on to Father Riley. But I mustn't suggest that; whatever Duncan decided to do with it would be the right choice. What was most important was that it pass through his hands.

"That played out exactly as Darius expected. I learned Duncan did, without prompting, give the chalice to Father Riley."

Nick nodded. "That's...sort of strange, I guess." Actually, he couldn't fathom why Beaufort was telling him about it. "I know Liam Riley. Haven't seen him recently, but he once told me Mac had given him something 'priceless.' So...was it Liam who told you I'm an Immortal?"

"No, no! I've just told you this to emphasize how highly Darius regarded Duncan.

"That's why I was surprised - and, uh, troubled - by another request he made of me. About something that seems even more important than the chalice."

The priest went to a nearby cabinet, which he had to unlock. Reaching inside, he pulled out a large cardboard box. He laid it on a table within Nick's reach - handling it, Nick thought, _reverently_. "This contains writings that I believe include Darius's Chronicle of his own life, and other documents of even greater significance. Prophecies! A look into the future! I haven't tried to read any of these materials - I was told not to. I feel honored that Darius trusted me to guard them for a time."

Then, looking directly into Nick's eyes, the priest said, "Darius told me the person I must give them to was an Immortal named Nicholas Wolfe."

Nick almost choked. "_Wh-what?_ Darius died back in...1993? How could he even have heard of me? Let alone known I was, at the time, a pre-Immortal..."

"I have no idea!" Shaking his head, Beaufort continued, "He said I wouldn't meet you till after the turn of the millennium. I shouldn't go out of my way to find you...if I just stayed here and waited, you'd come to me.

"Mr. Wolfe -"

Nick said belatedly, "Call me Nick." And then thought _Why on earth am I bothering about something that trivial, now?_

It must have struck Beaufort that way too, because he managed a weak smile before saying, "All right, Nick. I'm Robert.

"Darius wanted me to give you this. _You_ certainly _are_ authorized to read everything in it. He said you'd understand, when you read it, what knowledge has to be kept secret, and why.

"But...here's what I found troubling. The reason I didn't approach you before, even on our second meeting... Darius said it was crucially important that none of this ever be mentioned to _Duncan._"

"Oh my God." After a long pause, Nick knew he had to put the thought into words. "Mac was the person we'd _expect_ Darius to have trusted with something like this. The only explanation I can think of for what he told you is that...he knew Mac didn't have long to live himself."

Beaufort gave a reluctant nod. "I'm afraid that's it." He hesitated, then added, "On the bright side, you may be destined for a very long life."

Nick shook his head. "I don't see anything 'bright' about it. Only darkness...and grief."

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He decided, because of the storm, that he'd leave the precious documents where they were until he could safely move them. He was awed - and, frankly, frightened - at the prospect of learning what was in them. But as Beaufort was putting them away, he heard himself say, "Wait."

"Yes?"

"Damn it - sorry, Robert - I'll feel like a coward if I leave here without at least taking a quick look through them."

With the ghost of a smile, Beaufort said, "I admit I was hoping you'd do that."

The priest left him alone, promising he wouldn't be disturbed.

He still couldn't bring himself to search for - even acknowledge he was looking for - an account of what was going to happen, or already _had_ happened, to Mac. So he lifted sets of papers out of the box and skimmed through them in the order they were in. Oldest first.

He soon discovered there were documents written in classical Latin and Greek, medieval forms of French and several other languages, _and_ what were either languages completely unfamiliar to him or _code_. (Could they be _future_ languages?) But except for the Greek, they all utilized the standard alphabet. And they were all neatly, legibly handwritten, presumably by Darius himself.

_Some of this old paper is already starting to deteriorate. I'd better put everything on CD-ROMs, even before I translate it. Have portable copies, with the handwritten originals stored in a safe place._

But he couldn't resist trying to translate a few sections then and there. _My French is pretty good. I should be able to figure out what this archaic French is saying..._

A half hour later he sat back, stunned. _I __**can't**__ be reading this right. It's incredible!_

_Try some other time periods. Find something in English._

_Something in English. About our time, or the near future..._

After another hour, tears were streaming down his cheeks.

Tears of joy.

He still wasn't sure he understood that archaic French.

And he'd found no mention of the current crisis involving Duncan MacLeod.

But he had learned that at a later date, MacLeod would be alive and well!

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He hastened to share that finding with Father Beaufort. The two men embraced, both jubilant.

Naturally, he wanted to call Le Blues Bar. But he found that he couldn't, because the one landline phone at St. Joseph's was dependent on electricity. So as soon as he'd seen the treasure trove of documents safely locked away, he headed back out into the storm.

_What storm?_ He was now so light of heart that he gave it barely a thought.


	4. Chapter 4

Back in Le Blues Bar, Joe had made that painful call to the Watchers. The senior Watcher he spoke with seemed to take everything he said very seriously, and assured him she'd inform the Tribunal. Since the Tribunal was located in Paris, he knew they'd already be concerned about the hurricane.

He was at a loss for what to say to Methos. The man had just acknowledged the death of his son...

At last he just said, "Methos...is there _anything_ I can do for you?"

"Just keep being my friend, Joe."

"Always," he promised.

Then they sat in wretched silence.

Joe had a Scotch, Methos a beer.

After a half hour, the phone rang.

"Joe?" A tense, anxious voice. "This is Arnaud Molari." The Chairman of the Tribunal.

"Yeah," Joe said dully. "You got my message?"

"Yes. Uh, thank you for giving us that, uh, suggestion. I'm just checking...this is the phone in your bar, right?"

"Yes."

"Are you alone there, Joe?"

"No," Joe told him. "Adam Pierson is with me."

There was a pause, while Molari seemingly processed that information.

"Adam Pierson" was no longer a full-time Watcher. He'd ostensibly quit because he, like others before him, was frustrated by his inability to track down the ever-elusive Methos. But he hadn't left the organization on bad terms. Since his move to England, they'd occasionally used him as a "stringer."

"All right," Molari said. "It's probably good that he's there with you. I'm coming over."

"What? _You're_ coming _here?_ It's not safe to be on the roads, Arnaud -"

"I know that, but I need to see you in person. I'll be there as soon as I can!" Before Joe could ask any questions, he hung up.

Joe turned to Methos and said, "If you didn't hear, Molari's coming over." He hesitated, then said gently, "I think he's going to tell us they've learned who killed Mac."

Methos took another long swig of beer. From the bottle.

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Another half hour passed before someone knocked loudly on the door, then began struggling to open it. Joe levered himself out of his chair, prepared to greet Molari. But three wet and windblown men came in; then they had to turn around and use their combined strength to get the door closed.

When they finally faced Joe and he recognized one of them, his prosthetic legs almost went out from under him.

_"My God..."_

Fortunately, Methos was there to steady him.

_"Matthew Hale?"_ Joe whispered. "I killed you..."

Suddenly, he saw the explanation. Hale had come back to life...as an Immortal! But that changed everything...

Methos was saying, "Joe...MacLeod knew Hale was a pre-Immortal. We decided not to worry you by telling you what you'd done. You'd shot him in self-defense - and he would have become Immortal at some point, anyway."

Joe knew Methos believed - as he did - that while pre-Immortals could only become Immortal after accidental or violent deaths, they literally couldn't die in any other way (the sole exception being slow-acting poison). There was probably something in their DNA that made them either accident-prone or drawn to risk-filled lifestyles, so most of them became Immortal while still young and vigorous.

He understood what Methos wasn't saying. Methos had of course realized Hale was a pre-Immortal on first meeting, just as Mac had. He hadn't mentioned it to Joe during this crisis - in case it might have some relevance - because the decision not to tell him had been a joint decision, _his and Mac's_, and he would have felt disloyal if he reversed it.

Joe suddenly realized Hale was, at that moment, learning "Adam Pierson" was Immortal. _Damn!_

But then he saw something Molari and the third man with them couldn't see. Looking directly at "Adam," Hale silently but very clearly mouthed the words _I won't tell_.

"Sorry to spring it on you like that, Joe," Molari was saying. "Matt wanted to come. What I first intended was to have him wait in the car till I'd explained what he is now, then call him in. But with this wind, getting from the car to your door is such an ordeal that I figured we'd better all do it at once, and get it over with."

"Yeah. Okay." Joe tried to pull himself together. "C'mon in and sit down. Shed those wet raincoats so you'll be more comfortable." He looked closely at the third man - the youngest - and guessed, "Brian Kirk, right? Watcher friend of Hale's?"

"Yeah," Kirk said, looking anything but comfortable.

Joe's mind was racing. _We thought - at least I thought - Hale had gone renegade back when he had that crazy idea of snatching Mac and Jacob Kell and forcing them into a new Sanctuary. I couldn't believe the Tribunal would endorse doing that to any Immortal. Even if they were concerned about Immortals learning nothing bad happens when they kill on holy ground, we'd convinced them Mac didn't know._

_If Hale's a sidekick of Molari's now, were they in cahoots even back then?_

_My God. Are they going to tell me Mac's alive, that they've forced him into a Sanctuary and won't let him go?_

_That wouldn't jibe with what Methos believes about the hurricane. He seemed so sure_...

Joe didn't know how he was supposed to act in this situation. But he figured he was, in a sense, these men's host. So he offered them drinks. On the house, of course.

Methos muttered an obscenity.

But Molari accepted the offer of drinks, saying, "I think we'll all need them."

x

x

x

Five minutes later they'd all been supplied with their preferred forms of liquid courage (Methos sticking with beer), and were settled at a table.

For the first time, Joe looked closely enough at Molari and Kirk to see that they both had bruises on their faces.

_Shit. It hadn't occurred to me that the wind isn't just battering people, it's hurling debris at them! Must be hell out there._

Before he could comment, Molari said, "Joe, Adam...I don't want either of you to imagine, for a moment, that we're bringing good news. There is no good news.

"Having said that, I'll tell you that we're not here - as you may have expected - to tell you who killed Duncan MacLeod. MacLeod...isn't dead."

Joe heard Methos's sharp intake of breath.

"But..." Molari shook his head, then continued in a hoarse, strained voice, "After you hear me out, you'll understand why I said the news isn't good.

"The Watchers have...done something terrible. Made a horrific mistake that cancels out all the _good_ we may _ever_ have done. Matt and Brian insisted on coming here with me because they feel partly responsible. But I was in command. All the blame rightly falls on me.

"It was Watchers who snatched MacLeod. The Tribunal intended to force him into a new Sanctuary, like we'd tried to do years ago..."

_"Damn!"_ That came from Methos. "I should have guessed. I thought all along there was something fishy about his car not turning up, abandoned somewhere. Damned Watchers...violating every oath you'd ever sworn, but still wanting to preserve Duncan MacLeod's car, for history!"

Molari nodded. "Yes. It...wasn't our finest moment."

"So much time had passed..." Methos turned to Joe and said miserably, "MacLeod and I knew Hale had become Immortal, Joe, but otherwise we thought the same as you - that he'd already broken with the Watchers, been a renegade.

"MacLeod was extra cautious for a while, thinking Hale might come after him. But we never heard anything of him. We figured he'd either been killed quickly - maybe let himself be killed - or had set up a new identity for himself and was just trying to live quietly, not attract the attention of other Immortals."

Hale cleared his throat, then said, "I was involved with snatching MacLeod. Lured him into the alley near your bar, Joe, by playing a recording of a woman screaming. It wasn't intended that I even touch him, and I never did.

"The plan was to take him down with one quick shot from behind, so he'd barely have time to feel it. But he was smart enough to realize what was happening and dive to one side, so our guys wound up riddling him with bullets...

"I was shot myself. But I learned later that all the guns had silencers, so the guys could take time to clean up the blood in the alley."

"What happened then?" Joe asked tightly. _Don't let Methos talk so much, or they'll realize he knows more and cares more than "Adam Pierson" should..._

A grim-faced Molari picked up the story. "We'd hoped to begin the process of drugging MacLeod while he was still temporarily 'dead,' and put him in our Sanctuary without his ever knowing what had happened.

"But he came to. And he put up a fight, as you can imagine! We finally overpowered him, through sheer force of numbers.

"And then...then..." Joe saw tears in the other man's eyes. "He said he wouldn't beg. But he tried to reason with us. If only we'd listened!

"He said the Sanctuary had probably been a bad idea from the start...but if all the men in it were volunteers, it had at least been harmless. What we wanted to do to him was morally wrong. He wanted us to _know_, if we went through with it, that he considered it a fate worse than death.

"And he said it was pointless, because hardly any living Immortals even believe in a future 'Gathering.' Some had associated it with the turn of the millennium, so headhunting had been at its peak during the last fifteen years of the twentieth century. Now it had dropped off drastically - partly because the turn of the millennium hadn't been significant, but mostly because the _worst_ Immortals had been killed. Killed in self-defense by men like him, who _aren't_ a threat to the world.

"He said he wasn't a saint, but he didn't think anyone could deny that on balance, he'd done more good than harm in his life. We had no reason to think that would change. And if we'd just let him go, he wouldn't seek any kind of revenge.

"That was a turning point... _Damn!_ Why didn't we listen?"

Methos said angrily, "MacLeod didn't know the half of it." Glaring at Hale, he continued, "Megan Farrell got a letter off to me before she died. Hale knew at least three of the original Sanctuary Immortals had been snatched against their will, and when one of them tried to escape, he murdered him! I'm sure he murdered Megan, too."

This was news to Joe. _Who the hell was Megan Farrell?_

Hale didn't even blink. "Guilty as charged," he admitted. "But the Tribunal didn't know any of that till I became Immortal. I told them then. And it was partly because I regretted the things I'd done that I volunteered to go into the Sanctuary myself."

_"What?"_ That came from both Joe and Methos.

"True," Molari chimed in. "Matt volunteered. And we thought we needed two Immortals, so neither of them could become the last survivor - the One - and suddenly receive a 'Prize' that might turn him into an uncontrollable, power-hungry maniac. We decided to take MacLeod because we were sure he'd beheaded Jacob Kell, after either he or Kell had beheaded his clansman Connor. So he'd acquired, directly or indirectly, the Quickenings of all the Immortals who'd ever been in the Sanctuary. Except for the one Matt had killed - his Quickening was lost, of course.

"We'd drugged Matt and set the whole thing up for him, with his consent, before we began the process of drugging MacLeod. We only brought Matt back after...everything went haywire."

Methos said only one word: _"Explain."_

But something in his voice made Joe remember that this Immortal had been one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.

Molari nodded. "We found that with the drugs we'd been using, we couldn't keep MacLeod unconscious. He may have been stronger than other Immortals, in that respect, even before he took what we thought of as the 'Sanctuary Quickenings' - I don't know. What I do know now is that at some point, we should have given up and let him go. But instead, our people kept putting more and more different drugs into him. I'm sure it wound up being a combination that had never before been put into _anyone's_ bloodstream.

"And it...it..._destroyed him_. I think his...his mind...may have just..._disintegrated_. So then he had no control at all, no comprehension of what he was doing. Almost from the start, he's been hurling our people around - levitating us, slamming us into walls and the like - without even touching us. You can see from looking at my face, and Brian's, that we've...gotten in the arena...ourselves. Sometimes he's even briefly _invisible_, so we've had to rely on Matt to pinpoint exactly where in the room he is. But he can't pass through walls...at least not yet.

"At first this...uncontrollable fury...was only affecting _us_. But now it's escalated to...what you see outside the door. And it's getting worse."

Joe remembered what Methos had said less than two hours ago. _"The Watchers have to find this guy, Joe. Find him fast. And have a mortal behead him, to put an end to it. If they don't, he may wreck the continent...or the whole planet."_

_Oh my God. No, no!_

Now Methos said bitterly, "So you're telling us the Watchers have - unintentionally - turned the best of the Immortals into the very monster you were trying to _prevent_."

Hanging his head, Molari said, "Yes. Except that this is worse, because he doesn't have any goal, like ruling the world. He's just striking out, mindlessly, at everything."

Hale said, "Tell them the rest of it, Arnaud. Or I will."

_There's __**more?**_

Molari took a deep breath. "All right. It seems MacLeod isn't just suffering mentally. We've gotten the impression he's also having real, physical pain - _excruciating_ pain - that never lets up. Maybe the drugs would have done this to anyone - I don't know. But he never stops screaming. I can't get those screams out of my mind, even now..."

Once again, it was Methos who responded. After taking a deep, steadying breath of his own, he said, "Don't you assholes know there are ways to keep an Immortal 'temporarily dead' long-term? 'Kill' him in as humane a way as possible, and then put him in an airless compartment - an airtight _coffin_ would do in a pinch. Or put him in a tank of water and keep him submerged. Maybe, even fifty years from now, someone might find a way to undo what you've done to him!"

But Molari was shaking his head. "We _have_ thought of that. But...I don't know whether it's because of the drug combination or his powers, but it seems there's no way to keep him 'temporarily dead' longer than five seconds! A bullet would immobilize him long enough for a quick stroke to behead him, if we're forced to do that. But not long enough for any other purpose. Especially since as soon as there's a flicker of life, his powers hurl anyone who's near him away from him.

"And if you're wondering, he hasn't had any food or drink for all these weeks. It seems that with the terrible traumas he's experiencing, he 'dies,' probably from something like heart failure or aneurysms, at least once a day. But every time, he snaps back to life immediately, with a body that's - theoretically - in perfect health."

They all lapsed into silence.

Which only made them more conscious of the howling wind outside the door.

At last Methos said, "So you're just going to 'put him down,' like an animal?"

Joe cringed. Squeezed the Immortal's knee under the table, and whispered, "Adam..." _Don't give away how much you care!_

But Methos was still speaking. "If you're going to do that, I want to see him first."

Joe joined in immediately. "I want to see him too!"

Molari had no objection. "I thought you'd want that, Joe. You too, Adam, since you're here.

"In fact, I want you to see him. I don't think there's any...remnant...of the man Duncan MacLeod was. But I can't be sure. If there's a chance he'd recognize close friends, that you could calm him, it's worth a try. I think that if he understood, he'd _want_ us to 'kill' him temporarily - even, as a last resort, permanently - to end his suffering."

As they were all getting to their feet, Methos said, "Richie..."

"That's right," Joe said quickly. "Arnaud...Richie Ryan's been here with us. And Nick Wolfe. _Both_ of them need to be given a chance to see Mac again."

This time, Molari looked perplexed. "But...back when MacLeod had that breakdown and thought he'd killed Ryan, Ryan let everyone - _including MacLeod_ - believe he was dead for over three years. Just so he could evade _us._ That doesn't sound like a great friendship to me. And Wolfe isn't either an Immortal or a Watcher, so how can he and MacLeod have gotten that close?"

_Damn it_, Joe thought, _is every lie I've ever told coming back to haunt me?_

"I may have been wrong about Richie's motives all those years ago. In any case, it's water over the dam - he thinks of Mac almost as a father now.

"And Wolfe got to know Mac through Amanda and other Immortal friends. He idolizes him - especially because Mac had the strength to stop taking heads, except when there was no other possible way to survive."

Molari sighed. "All right. But where _are_ these guys? The Watcher assigned to Ryan lost him before he left Canada. And the clock is ticking..."

"Richie went to Mac's barge - you know where he's had it moored? Assuming it hadn't floated downriver, Richie was going to fasten it more securely. And Nick went to pray in St. Joseph's Chapel. They're either in those places, or on their way back by now - Richie on a motorcycle, Nick on foot."

"You two come with us, then," Molari said decisively. "I'll send people to find them and bring them. We'll check the barge, the chapel, and if necessary, the routes they'd be likely to take back here."

"Okay," Joe agreed. "I'll have to write notes for your 'people' to give them, so they'll know Adam and I are on board with this. And in case you somehow miss them, I'll have to write notes to leave _here_, so they'll know where to join us. I mean to lock up, of course, but Richie and Nick both have keys.

"Nick has a rental car - he'll drive in this mess in an emergency, same as you guys. But you'll have to tell me where we're going."

Molari heaved another sigh. But then he revealed the location of what had been planned as the new Sanctuary - a former hospital, a few miles outside Paris. The Watchers had purchased the building, and meant to claim it was being used as some kind of research facility.

_Not even a pretense of holy ground this time_, Joe thought wryly.

x

x

x

He went into his office, so he could write the notes at his desk.

Methos followed him, and perched on the edge of the desk. He said softly, "Make it look as if we're just discussing what should go in the notes."

"Uh, okay. What _are_ we discussing?"

"If there turns out to be no alternative to beheading MacLeod, you have to insist on being the one to do it."

Those earlier words flashed through Joe's mind again._ "The Watchers have to find this guy, Joe. Find him fast. And have a mortal behead him, to put an end to it. If they don't, he may wreck the continent...or the whole planet."_

He couldn't help taking his eyes off the note he was penning, and looking at his friend. "My God, Methos, I don't think I _can_..."

"You won't have to," Methos replied. "I'll be standing next to you - for moral support, we'll say. At the last instant, I'll take the sword from you, and _I'll_ behead him."

Joe almost choked. "Christ, Methos, you can't! First of all, you said years ago that you couldn't possibly do such a thing -"

"That was weakness on my part. But it turned out to have been the right choice, because he survived that crisis and all ended well. This is different. We'll only be doing it if he's in agony, physical and mental, and the fate of the world is at stake."

"The other reason you can't do it," Joe argued, "is that Watchers would see you take a Quickening! And not just any Quickening, one that's extremely dangerous. I thought the whole point was to not have this Quickening go into anyone!"

"Listen to me," Methos said firmly. "I've thought this through.

"I can't volunteer to do the beheading, because Hale might hear of it, and he knows I'm Immortal. But he won't risk being nearby when you're supposedly going to do it, because the last thing he'd want is to have that dangerous Quickening go into _him_.

"As soon as I take it, I want you to explain to the people around us. Tell them everything! That I'm Methos, at least five thousand years old - and where mental control is concerned, I'm probably the strongest living Immortal. Tell them I'm MacLeod's father, _and_ the person who delivered him. Duncan MacLeod came out of his mother's body - my _wife's_ body - directly into my hands! And if I have to lose this son - as far as I know, my only child - I want to take all of him that I can back into me, keep his essence safe within me.

"I still want to live. If MacLeod wanted to go to the stars, like Richie said, I want to take part of him there!

"I believe I can do this and survive. Remember, the damned drugs that may have ruined MacLeod are or were in _his_ bloodstream. They'll never be in mine.

"But...if there's any sign that I can't handle it...I want _you_ to behead _me_. I think you'll have the strength to do that, Joe, when I've actually told you it's what I want."

A stunned Joe could only murmur, "All...all right. I'm just going to keep hoping - and praying - that we won't have to do any of this."

Methos hesitated, then said, "One more thing...in case I don't have a chance to tell you later. These blasted Watchers are sure to have kept MacLeod's katana. Insist they let you kill him with _that_.

"If it has to be done, I hope he'll know, somehow, that it's being done out of love. That the man who's killing him loves him. And if a sword could feel emotions, the _sword_ would love him too."


	5. Chapter 5

Rivers of rain seemed to be cascading down on Molari's SUV. Joe couldn't understand how Kirk, at the wheel, was managing to see the road at all.

He wanted to try to think - if only for a few minutes - of something other than the danger they were in or the horror that lay ahead. So he asked Methos, "Hey, who was Megan Farrell?" That seemed like a safe topic, since Hale - who was of course with them - had readily admitted killing her.

When he learned Methos had been in love with the murdered woman, he regretted asking. But Methos kept his emotions in check, and gave a concise explanation of what had happened.

As a Watcher assigned to the Sanctuary back in 1990, Megan had convinced the Tribunal that anesthetizing the Immortals with slumberleaf was barbaric. (When Joe heard what they'd been doing, he thought "barbaric" was too mild a word.) So they'd begun using modern drugs.

But two years later, a drug shortage had forced the Sanctuary Watchers to revive one of the Immortals - as they intended, briefly. They'd been shocked to learn from Immortal Jonathan Poole that he and at least two others had been abducted and confined against their will. When Poole tried to escape, Hale had beheaded him. Megan had tried to flee, meaning to report that atrocity to the Tribunal. Hale, as he now admitted, had caught and killed her. But on the day of her death, she'd mailed a letter to her former lover, Watcher Adam Pierson, telling him the whole story.

"She told me not to risk going to the Tribunal myself, if she was dead," Methos said ruefully. "She just wanted me to know the truth...so I could leave a record of it for posterity, maybe.

"I thought there was a 50-50 chance the Tribunal had known all along that no one had gone into that Sanctuary voluntarily. And whether or not they'd known that, there was a 50-50 chance they'd endorse what Matt had done - even his killing Megan - and kill me if they learned I knew."

_And if they'd "killed" him_, Joe realized, _they would have seen him come back to life, and been furious at an Immortal's having infiltrated the organization. They might have chucked him into the Sanctuary as a replacement for Poole!_

Methos continued, "I can accept now that the Tribunal was in the dark until Matt confessed everything, after he'd become Immortal - a decade later. What _would_ you have done if I'd blown the whistle back in '92, Arnaud?"

Molari hadn't been Chairman that many years ago, but he had been a rotating member of the Tribunal.

"I'm not sure," he admitted. "I'm afraid we wouldn't have dared release the old Immortals. Powerful Immortals who'd be rightly furious, and would attract attention by being wildly out of place in the twentieth century.

"I think we would just have kicked Matt out of the organization. Definitely not harmed you! And we wouldn't have allowed another Immortal to go into the Sanctuary, even if someone found out about it and _they_ approached _us_."

Methos said, "Oh." In a very faint voice.

It took Joe only moments to grasp where _that_ chain of reasoning led.

_Connor MacLeod would never have gone into the Sanctuary. So nothing that stemmed from that would have happened!_

_No telling what would have become of Connor, or Jacob Kell. But no one would ever have been trying to force Mac into the Sanctuary. And he never would have been saddled with "powers" he didn't want._

_**Damn!**_

However Methos had been agonizing over MacLeod's plight, he hadn't been aware of any reason to blame himself.

Until now.

Personally, Joe didn't believe Molari. He thought it more likely the Tribunal would have given _"Pierson"_ the boot - kicked _him_ out of the organization - and let Hale continue on his not-so-merry way.

_Hale would still have coaxed Connor into the Sanctuary. And Methos would have lost his "in" with the Watchers. He and Mac wouldn't have met the way they did - might never have met at all. There were times, __**before**__ the Sanctuary blow-up, when Mac wouldn't have survived if Methos wasn't around!_

But he doubted the grieving father was thinking of that.

Then Hale, of all people, suggested another "what-if" scenario. He said tentatively, "You know...even if some people thought using slumberleaf was 'barbaric,' we never did find out for sure whether it caused the Immortals to suffer. If anything, it seems more likely it didn't, because Poole didn't seem to remember anything after he was beaten unconscious back in the year 990.

"We don't have slumberleaf now. No one preserved the knowledge of where in France it grew. But...maybe those long-ago Watchers knew what they were doing, provided for all contingencies. It's at least possible that even an Immortal as strong as MacLeod could have been anesthetized with _that_ without its harming him."

Joe stole a look at Methos. And thought _I guess we don't have to worry about the Watchers' noticing he hasn't aged_.

x

x

x

Opening and closing the doors of the hospital proved to be as difficult as getting in and out of Le Blues Bar. Once inside, the men were shielded from the rain - but not the wind. Gale-force gusts whipped through corridors and stairwells; to stay on their feet, they had to cling to whatever sturdy handholds they could find.

_Probably to be expected_, Joe thought grimly, _when the storm's being __**created**__ by_ _someone inside_. Conditions in the hospital drove the reality of that home, as nothing else had.

Joe, frantic to get to MacLeod, was surprised when Methos pulled Hale aside to talk to him. Pulled Joe too. _So I won't imagine he's saying something to another Immortal that he wouldn't want me to hear_, Joe realized.

Hearing anything over the wind was difficult. But by huddling together, the three of them managed it.

"First, Matt," Methos said quickly, "Joe knows I'm Immortal -"

Hale nodded. "I know. When I mouthed to you that I wouldn't tell, I could see he understood what I meant."

"Okay. Here's what I want to ask you. Does MacLeod react any differently when he senses another Immortal? Assuming he can't have the kind of thoughts we'd have - does it comfort him, maybe, to sense one of his own kind? Or does it get him more upset?"

"No difference, at least none that I've been able to see. He can still sense us - his eyes usually dart toward me for a second. But then he just keeps screaming. I don't think anything could get him _more_ 'upset' than he is, all the time."

Methos winced. "Okay, thanks. I was just hoping..."

"But..." Hale hesitated, then said, "There was something I heard, over a week ago now. I thought it might be meaningful. But Arnaud didn't see how it could possibly help us. Maybe I should tell you, and let you think about it.

"By now, like I said, MacLeod is just _screaming_. When I listen, I can't make out any words. I think he's lost the use of language. But at the outset, there were sometimes real words - in dozens of languages! And that one night, he was clearly screaming about dogs."

_"Dogs?"_ This was another time when the response came from Joe and Methos in unison.

"Yes. He seemed to think he was being _attacked_ by dogs, screaming for someone to help him! And..." Hale shuddered. "We later learned that at that very time, in a park in Paris, a lost child _was_ being attacked by a pack of feral dogs.

"The child was killed. The dogs...tore him to pieces."

After a moment of stunned silence, Methos said, "So...at least then...the pain MacLeod was experiencing was _someone else's_...

"Ye gods. What if it's all like that? If _that's_ what the drugs did to him?"

Then something clicked in Joe's mind.

"Uh, Adam..." When he managed to get Methos's attention, he tried to signal with his eyes that he needed to talk to him alone.

Methos got the point. "Thank you, Matt! I don't know whether our understanding that will be of any help, but I'm glad you told us."

After they'd stepped away from Hale, Joe whispered urgently, "Remember the business with Ahriman?"

"Oh, no. You're not thinking Ahriman -"

"No, Ahriman isn't back. That's all over.

"But Mac told me something about how he defeated him. Mac had to become an Avatar for all humanity, remember? He told me he went through a sequence like this, to convince himself of it...

" _'I am everything._

" _'Therefore, I am nothing.'_ Meaning, no one specific thing.

" _'Therefore, you'_ - meaning Ahriman - _'are nothing.'_ "

Methos shook his head. "I...don't quite get it."

_Even though he thinks he was a long-ago Avatar himself_, Joe reflected.

"For the purpose of defeating Ahriman, I don't get it either," Joe told him. "But what's important now is that Mac had learned how to _transcend his own identity, _and had in fact done it. Had become, in a sense, not Duncan MacLeod, but everyone and everything.

"I'm thinking his having done that before may have made it possible for the drugs to have this effect. Maybe there's a barrier between self and other that we all have - but it was weaker in him, more easily broken."

Now Methos gave a slow nod. "And I think that even if he wasn't aware of it, he'd been using a portion of his will, constantly, to control those damn 'powers' he'd received. Part of his strength being diverted to that may have weakened the barrier still more."

"So now," Joe continued, "he isn't Duncan MacLeod. He's once again become everyone and everything. And because of the drugs, the way that's affecting him is that he's sharing - _fully_ - the _pain_ being experienced by everyone and everything. Maybe even beyond this planet!"

For a moment, he thought Methos was about to faint.

But then the old Immortal steadied himself and said, "Okay. Now that we know that..."

"There's hope," Joe said firmly. (Though he wasn't sure he believed it.) "We have to pull him back into the identity of Duncan MacLeod. Hell - maybe just seeing friends he recognizes will do it! And if it's not that easy, we can justify taking more time because we have a real plan."

Well, sort of.


	6. Chapter 6

Joe and Methos quickly informed Molari - without mentioning Ahriman - that MacLeod had once practiced a form of meditation that included transcending his own identity and becoming "everything." The last bit of color drained from the Watcher Chairman's face as he grasped what they were saying - that they believed Mac had involuntarily done that now, and was experiencing _everyone's __**pain.**_

He readily agreed that they should try to bring him back. "We're all on the same page here," he said miserably. "Beheading Duncan MacLeod should be the absolute last resort."

But even as he spoke, the building began to shake.

A minor tremor...this time. But still, the first sign of an earthquake. Centered below their feet.

In a choked voice, Molari said, "Hurry!"

That was easier said than done. The old general-purpose hospital had included a small psychiatric wing, meant solely to confine patients deemed dangerously psychotic till they could be transferred to a mental hospital. When the Watchers realized MacLeod had "snapped," a dozen men had dragged him there and put him in a secure, soundproof, padded cell. ("If we'd waited ten minutes longer, we wouldn't have been able to handle him," one of those men admitted.) Unfortunately, it was on the third floor. The elevator wasn't working - and if it had been working, they wouldn't have dared trust it.

So the group - which still included Molari, Hale, and Kirk - had to struggle up two flights of stairs, all the while buffeted by those unnatural indoor winds. Joe urged Methos to go on ahead. But Methos refused...and wound up half-carrying him.

At last they were standing outside the cell. A large window of thick, virtually unbreakable glass enabled them to see its interior...

The stuff of nightmares.

The room was unfurnished, containing nothing but its suffering human occupant. MacLeod was rolling back and forth on the floor, repeatedly banging his head on that floor (which was, like the walls, padded). He was dressed in some sort of jumpsuit - arms pinioned in a straitjacket, legs in constant motion. He'd obviously been unshaven for weeks; hair and beard were a tangled mess. His face, when they glimpsed it, was so contorted as to be unrecognizable. And while the soundproofing (not to mention the wind in the corridor) prevented their hearing him, they were sure he was screaming at the top of his lungs.

As they watched, he managed to get to his feet - and began racing back and forth, hurling himself against the walls. When he wound up on the floor again, he resumed his frantic rolling.

"Oh my God," Joe whispered. He had to lean on Methos for support.

Methos asked one of the half-dozen Watcher attendants standing in the hall, "Why is he in a straitjacket?"

_Not asking in a critical way_, Joe realized. _He's prepared for their having a good explanation._

The explanation came. "Because he was trying to tear his ears off."

"Oh."

Molari said miserably, "His powers would probably enable him to break out of the straitjacket, even out of the cell. We think...I'm sorry to have to say this...he just doesn't have enough brain function left to think of doing it."

Joe and Methos looked at each other. Both took deep breaths.

Then Joe said, "We're going in. Together."

x

x

x

Getting the door open - and closed again behind them - required another five-minute struggle.

And even the view through the window hadn't prepared them for the horror inside the cell. Both of them were swept up by an unseen force and sent slamming into walls, floor, and ceiling. They were close enough to MacLeod to realize he stank of sweat - and God knew what else. His shrieks, wails, and howls were all but deafening. And when they were able to look into his eyes, they saw no hint of recognition. Only madness.

Nevertheless, they screamed at him, "You are Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod!"

Whenever they tried to touch him, either they were hurled away, or he momentarily vanished - and reappeared elsewhere in the cell.

So they quit trying to make physical contact, and concentrated on trying to "talk," reasonably, to him. Even if they were being forced to _shout_, and hurled hither and thither while they were doing it.

They appealed to him, separately, by reminding him of who _they_ were (Methos, with his back to the window and any possible lip-readers, not hesitating to use his real name). Reminding him they were his friends, recalling shared adventures.

But above all, stressing his _name_. _"You are Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod!"_

They told him, "You have a _life_, Duncan MacLeod. Come back to that life! Come back to the people who love you and need you!"

They were hoarse, bruised, exhausted.

And they'd gotten exactly nowhere.

At last Joe looked at the window...and saw a distraught, weeping Richie trying to get their attention. He nudged Methos, and let him know the young Immortal was there.

They wearily decided to let Richie have a go at it - assuming that was what he wanted - and signaled that they were ready to come out.

x

x

x

Richie had changed out of his wet clothes - obviously aboard the barge, since he was now wearing ill-fitting clothes, and a raincoat, of MacLeod's. He quickly explained that the Watchers had found him while he was headed back to Le Blues Bar. "The barge is all right," he told them. "And I _have to_ believe we'll be able to take Mac back there!"

They explained what they'd been trying to do. "Maybe you can get through to him," Joe whispered, "if you remind him you're his son..."

Richie nodded. "And I'll show him photos of his grandson. I know he'll remember Dare." In happier times, the parents of the active five-year-old had liked to joke that "Dare" could be short for either "Darius" or "Daredevil" - the latter, a name that fit him perfectly.

The Watchers, of course, didn't know either that Dare was a pre-Immortal or that he was Richie's biological son. They'd been led to believe he was wife Monica's child by a former lover, who'd been out of the picture well before Dare was born.

Richie went into the cell, and they watched him make a valiant attempt to establish some real communication with MacLeod. But he was obviously faring no better than his elders.

And now Joe began wondering where Nick was. "Our men couldn't find him," Molari reported. "Looked in the chapel, tried several routes back to your bar. He wasn't there."

"That's impossible!" Joe protested. "He didn't mean to go anywhere near the distance Richie went. How the hell could you have missed him?"

_Damn. Now I have to worry about Nick. Could headhunters be out on the streets, in a hurricane?_

But then something happened that drove that worry completely out of his mind.

x

x

x

Methos gave a sudden gasp, then blurted out, "Oh, _no!_"

"What?"

Methos pulled Joe out of earshot of any of the Watchers. "I was looking at Richie, trying to show MacLeod those photos," he said. His voice shaking. "I remembered how he and Monica first meant to trick the Watchers into thinking Dare's name was Darrell. But then they decided it would be plausible that with his father not around, Monica had gone along with Darius, a name that had meaning for Richie.

"I was just thinking of real and not-real names. Including my own - my not really being 'Adam Pierson.' And then I saw why we couldn't pull MacLeod back into the identity of Duncan MacLeod. That _isn't_ his real identity!"

"Wh-what?" _Is Methos losing __**his**__ mind now?_ "Of course it is!"

"No," Methos said firmly, "it isn't. Remember what I told you years ago? Right after he was born, Margaret - his mother - gave him a secret name. His _real_ name. So enemies like Roland Kantos wouldn't know his name and be able to make magical use of it."

Joe thought back, and did remember the story. "B-but...how can that matter now? Mac never knew that secret name. Never even knew there _was_ a secret name. He's always thought of himself as Duncan MacLeod."

Methos shook his head. "No. Margaret whispered that name into his ear - I saw her do it. He's never been consciously aware of it. But even though he was only a few minutes old when he heard it, he _did_ hear it. And at a deep subconscious level, he knows what it is. Knows _who __**he**_ is."

"But you don't."

"No."

"Oh my God."

"I'll have to try again," Methos said grimly. "I'm going to go back in there and try all the names I can think of that Margaret _might_ have given him. Starting with _my_ name, the alias I was using at the time, her brother's name - and all the acquaintances I can remember.

"But she may have tried to avoid the obvious. So if none of those work, I'll try the expected enemy's own name - Roland Kantos! Or...she may even have given him a female name. Or named him something like Chair or Table."

"Chair or Table?" Joe was appalled. "If it could be _anything_, any _word_, you might yell suggestions at him for a year and not hit on it!"

"Yes. But I _might_ hit on it. And it may be the only way of saving his life."

So they went to Molari, and told him the most plausible lie they could think of. Joe said he'd remembered MacLeod's once telling him that a "soothsayer" had told _him_ his mother had given him a secret, magical name. Since Richie seemed to be on the verge of giving up, "Adam" wanted to go back in the cell and try to guess the secret name.

Molari's reaction was just about what they'd expected. "That's crazy!"

"Maybe it is," Methos acknowledged. "But I want to _try_, damn it!"

"We can't keep doing this much longer. I don't want to kill him, any more than you do. But we just learned the storm's spread to Belgium and the Netherlands. I don't think we can risk waiting more than another hour or so."

"Well, let me get in there and start, then!"

Molari was still shaking his head. "MacLeod was born in...1592, right? How can you expect to come up with a 'secret name' someone might have given a child in that era?"

"When I was trying to track Methos, learn his patterns, I did research on _many_ eras. That was one of them. I'm not saying I'm the best-qualified person in the world to attempt this, but I'm the best-qualified person _here_."

Joe saw a certain expression on Methos's face. A certain movement of his right hand...

And he suddenly understood why the old Immortal had only removed his wet, heavy raincoat when they were going into MacLeod's cell - and donned it again when they came out.

_My God. He's "carrying"! If Molari won't cooperate, he's going to whip out his sword and start mowing down Watchers._

_If I'd thought to bring my gun, I'd help him._

But at that moment, a disheartened Richie signaled that he was indeed ready to give up...and Molari yielded.

x

x

x

An hour later, Methos staggered out of the cell - and collapsed. "No luck," he croaked. "As you can see."

And Joe said, "_I'm_ going in." Over strenuous objections from the Watchers, he forced his way in, with Richie's help.

Not surprisingly, he spent most of his time in the cell either on the floor or being whipped through the air. But he kept yelling names...and semi-random words.

Highlander. Immortal. Scotland. Tartan. Sword. Spear. Shield.

_This is insane in itself. Maybe we've all lost our minds._

By the time Richie pulled him out, he was babbling.

x

x

x

When he could think clearly again, he heard Richie saying, "I could try..."

He'd been told the "soothsayer" lie, and presumably believed it.

Methos shook his head. "You don't have enough knowledge of the era his mother lived in, Rich.

"And besides, I think we have to face the fact that this won't work. It's possible either Joe or I, or both of us, actually did say the right name. Our just throwing it out there - one possibility among dozens, with no special emphasis - might not have been enough for it to register with MacLeod."

Joe blanched. He hadn't thought of that.

But he said weakly, "We have to wait for Nick..."

_"No."_ That came from Molari. "We can't wait any longer! Other areas are reporting minor quakes. And if none of the three of you could help MacLeod, there's no chance this Wolfe guy could."

Richie said, "I think that by now, we have to assume something bad has happened to Nick. More likely due to the storm than...anything else." Meaning, of course, an encounter with another Immortal. The Watchers didn't know Nick was one. "Maybe a tree fell on him and he's pinned under it. Possibly in his car, not badly injured, but he still wouldn't be able to get out or call for help."

Joe had no answer for that.

x

x

x

At last everyone admitted - however reluctantly - that for the safety of the world, it would be necessary to behead Duncan MacLeod.

Joe, feeling almost in a daze, proceeded to play the part Methos had assigned him. Insisted that he be allowed to perform the ghastly deed...with Mac's katana.

Molari readily agreed, seeming grateful to have a volunteer. He sent one of his aides to get the sword.

Matthew Hale left, as expected, so his presence wouldn't cause a Quickening that would go into him. A tearful Richie did the same a few minutes later, telling his friends he'd wait for them at the hospital's main entrance. Richie clearly guessed why "Adam Pierson" wasn't making a move to leave (the only uncertainty being whether he or Joe would perform the actual beheading)...and didn't question it.

But after the longest fifteen minutes of Joe's life, Molari's aide came back and said, "Uh...I'm sorry about this. We can't find the katana. We meant to preserve it, of course. But now, no one can remember where we put it!"

Everyone let loose curses, even Molari. But then he said, "I'm sorry, Joe. I know this is making a bad situation worse. But when we intended this building to be our new Sanctuary, we moved the stored belongings of the original Sanctuary Immortals here. So we have swords available. You'll have to use another one."

And Joe exploded.

He knew Methos was screaming too. But he heard only himself.

He lunged at the Watcher chief, shook him violently, and yelled, "_No!_ You bastards have destroyed Duncan MacLeod. His friends should have killed you. Instead, we've actually agreed to finish the job of killing _him_ - a mercy killing, at this point.

"And now you have the gall to tell us you've _lost his sword?_

"_No way_ will I 'use another one.' You convinced us not to wait for Nick Wolfe. But I _will not_ go through with this - or tolerate someone else's doing it, and keep silent about the murder - if a different sword is used.

_**"Find that katana!"**_


	7. Chapter 7

Nick Wolfe's mind was in turmoil as he struggled to keep his car upright on a road he could barely see.

He knew why the Watchers had missed him at St. Joseph's. He'd been in the sacristy, and they hadn't thought to look beyond the nave. That was understandable. He hadn't expected to go into any private rooms, nor could Joe have imagined he might. Mac, yes; but not him.

He'd stayed at St. Joseph's way longer than he'd intended - not guessing that after weeks of frustration, this would be the day Mac's friends would be needed. When he found Joe's note back at the bar, he'd been horrified by its contents. A crisis so extreme that even _Methos_ - who Nick knew was Mac's father - thought it might be necessary to behead him? Inconceivable!

The directions Joe had left for Nick were clear; on any normal day, they would have been more than adequate. But as if blinding rain and hurricane-force winds weren't enough to cope with, he'd discovered that most road signs had already been blown away. He wasn't familiar with this suburban area, had no landmarks to guide him...was no longer even sure he was headed, as he hoped, west.

He _was_ sure he'd been driving at least three times longer than the trip should have required.

_Calm down. Mac can't die today. I know he'll still be alive at a later date._

_But...could that "future history" be changed?_

_Changed, maybe, if __**I'm**__ not where I should be today to save him?_

_Not that I have any idea of __**how**__ to save him..._

At least, he told himself, MacLeod was still alive _now_. If it was true that he was involuntarily causing the hurricane, his death would have ended it.

Unless...

_There are probably two other Immortals at that hospital. Mac's __**father**__, and his __**son**__. Either of them may have insisted on receiving his Quickening...and been unable to control it!_

Even as he wrestled with the car, Nick resumed praying.

Desperately.

To Darius.

x

x

x

He pulled up to the main entrance of what he thought might be the right building...and was rewarded by sensing another Immortal.

_Okay. I'm not sure who this is, but at least I've probably reached the right place._

He struggled out of the car and up to the building. After a predictable battle with the door, he was yanked inside - by Richie.

"Thank God you're here!" Richie gave him a brotherly hug. "At least we know _you're_ all right."

"What the hell is going on? I mean, beyond what Joe said in his note?"

"Right now, I don't know. I don't know whether Mac is dead or alive!" A grim Richie gave him a quick summary of what had happened before he came downstairs. "I'm not sure whether I could have seen any sign of a Quickening from this distance - like, bursts of light in the stairwell. I haven't seen anything, but that's no proof it didn't happen.

"I've been trying to decide what to do. I hadn't expected having to wait this long for someone to come and tell me it was over. And the storm isn't letting up..."

"Damn!" Nick shook his head. "I'd never realized how we've come to take cell phones for granted. It's maddening to have friends that near us, and not be able to call and ask them.

"But the storm's still raging suggests that for some reason, they haven't killed Mac yet. I vote we go up and find out why. If it...happens...while we're on our way, neither of us will be at risk from the Quickening. Methos, who you think _wanted_ it, will be closer."

Without hesitation, Richie said, "Agreed. I was on the verge of deciding that myself."

x

x

x

As they climbed the stairs, battling the unearthly wind, Nick thought about what Richie had told him. How neither Methos nor Joe had been able to guess that secret name - or if they did think of it as one of many possibilities, had failed to recognize it as _the one_, and thus couldn't use it to rescue MacLeod.

And he had a wild idea.

That couldn't have occurred to him before the events of that day.

_What I'm thinking is...bizarre._

_But __**all of this**__ is bizarre. Hell, even the existence of Immortals is bizarre!_

_Given that, what I'm thinking is just crazy enough to be true_.

They heard loud, angry voices as soon as they reached the third-floor landing. Moments later, they found Methos and Joe in a screaming match with Molari. The combatants stopped yelling long enough to acknowledge Nick's arrival, and he demanded to know what was going on.

To his horror, he learned the only reason MacLeod hadn't already been beheaded was that the Watchers had mislaid his katana, and Joe refused to use anything else.

"I just got here," he pointed out. "And I want a chance to go in there and talk to him, too."

"No!" Molari was livid. "We've allowed way too much time for this already. I'm sorry - I'll carry this guilt for the rest of my life - but the only solution now is to kill him. Kill him quickly, before he kills _us_ - the only people who understand what's happening and have a chance to stop it!"

"What I want to do won't take long," Nick argued. "I mean to try something that hasn't been tried yet. I think I may actually have guessed the secret name! So I want to test how he responds to hearing just that one name. If it _isn't_ the right one - if hearing it doesn't help him - I'll give up and come out."

That proposal stunned everyone. Joe, Methos, and Richie all began clamoring for Molari to let him try.

And Nick had a hand on his sword-hilt. _If I have to draw it and let the Watchers know I'm Immortal, so be it. I'm sure Richie - and Methos - will use theirs too, if need be. They'll even be willing to kill._

But no one had to show a sword. Molari said grudgingly, "All right. It'll take a few minutes for us to get another weapon for Joe or someone else to use, anyway."

Nick saw Richie roll his eyes. Did the Watchers not even realize _he_, a known Immortal, had one with him?

_Thank God for small favors_, Nick reflected. _Or maybe, thank Darius._

x

x

x

Nothing could have prepared him for what he saw when he looked through the window of the cell. A crazed _thing_ that bore no resemblance to Duncan MacLeod, racing mindlessly back and forth, hurling itself against the walls and bouncing off them. When it faced the window, it showed no sign of perceiving a difference between human onlookers and the padded wall. Its mouth was agape in a scream no one could hear...saliva ran unchecked into its beard and down its chin...

Methos said, loudly enough to be heard over the raging wind, "It's much worse when you're in there. The sound, the stench.

"When he isn't on his feet, he's rolling around on the floor. And they told us he's been like this 24/7. He seems to be in unbearable pain."

Nick took a deep breath. "Okay. I'm going in." Then he looked at the older Immortal and said - as gently as he could, under the circumstances - "Remember, I have a definite idea about a name, but it's still only a _guess_. No guarantees."

"I understand."

As an afterthought, Methos told him, "One more thing. There's no actual wind in there. But that can make it all the more unnerving when you're swept off your feet and tossed around."

"Hmm." Nick looked at the door. It had not a mere knob but a heavy handle, which looked as sturdy as the iron door itself. "Is there a twin to that handle on the inside?"

"Yes..."

"Then at the outset, I'll stay right inside the door and try to hold onto the handle, so I _won't_ be swept off my feet. If I can do that without looking too awkward, I may seem like a more 'authoritative' figure. With no wind, he'll be able to hear me from anywhere in the cell."

As Methos and Richie had done before him, he removed his raincoat - and with it, laid aside the deadly weapon it concealed.

And then he went into what he couldn't help thinking of as "the lion's den."

x

x

x

He stood as he'd planned. His hands, held not too awkwardly behind his back, gripped that door handle. Definitely _resisting_ some force that wanted to send him flying into the air - though there was no other indication the suffering creature in the cell had even noticed him.

And he was sure no lip-reader outside the window could see his face. _If I have hit on the secret name, it has to be __**kept**__ secret_.

He gathered his courage. And then, in a peremptory voice, he called out the name he'd guessed. "*******!"

The creature who'd been dashing back and forth, screaming, let out one more shriek - then stopped dead in his tracks. Stood stock still. _Trembling_ - his entire body was a-quiver - but standing in one place, with his back to Nick.

And Nick realized there was no longer a force trying to pull him off his feet.

Cautiously, he let go of the door handle. Then he said gently, "That's right, *******. You know who you are, don't you? I'm a friend, here to help you. Can you turn around and look at me, *******?"

Slowly, in a shambling way, the creature did manage to turn around.

He looked dazed, confused. Badly in need of that help. But tears were welling up in the eyes that met Nick's...and those tears were very human.

_Oh yes, you're no longer a "thing." To me, you are and always will be Duncan MacLeod. And probably, you'll always think of __**yourself**__ as Duncan MacLeod. But you have another name, a more important identity. And deep down, you already know or at least suspect it._

He said quietly, "That's good, *******. I'm going to come to you now...is that all right? Remember, I'm a friend. My name is Nick Wolfe, and you know me. But it's okay if you don't recognize me. I wouldn't know your name if I wasn't a friend, *******."

Walking slowly toward the other man, he continued in a soothing voice, "Your mother gave you your true name, *******. You were very fortunate in your parents. They loved each other, loved and wanted you. They only gave you away to keep you safe. And your mother gave you a very special name, for that same reason...to keep you safe.

"There was a man for whose help your mother was very grateful. She wanted to honor him by naming you for him. But that would have been too obvious. So instead, she gave you _a name she thought would have pleased him_...even though he'd never know."

By now he could touch the trembling man he couldn't help thinking of simply as Mac. He put his arms around him, and whispered into his ear, "Your mother did exactly this, *******. Right after you were born. Whispered into your ear, 'Your name is *******.' "

Pulling back, he said aloud, "I know you've been confused, *******. But now you're safe. The pain is gone, isn't it? You can feel safe in your own identity as *******. Let everything else drift away."

MacLeod made a soft whimpering sound, and sank down on his knees.

Nick went down with him. Gently freed him from the straitjacket and helped him lie down on the floor, his head on Nick's lap. The tremors had stopped, and he lay very still, letting Nick hold his hand.

"That's good, *******. You can rest now. Your true name fits you like a glove. Can you feel that? Let it slip over you, envelop you, protect you. Shutting out everything else. In another sense, you can think of it as a _shield_. *******, *******, *******."

_I don't know whether he's capable of understanding anything I've been saying. He may just be reacting to the name itself, and a soothing voice. But for now, that's enough._

Nick sat there, quietly, until MacLeod slipped into what might have been either sleep or unconsciousness. Checked his watch - _obviously, no one's going to interfere_ - and allowed another fifteen minutes.

Then he raised his hand to signal to the Watchers that they were ready to come out.

x

x

x

MacLeod was carried out on a stretcher. "I don't know how much time he'll need to recover from this," Nick told the others. "But I'm sure he _will_ recover."

He himself, despite having sat motionless for an hour, was so spent that he had to be helped out of the cell.

He noticed that both the other Immortals, and Joe, had tearstained faces. As did he. Now they all embraced...and shed more tears, of pure relief.

Joe _informed_ the Watchers that they were taking MacLeod home to his barge. No one dared object. Molari laid MacLeod's katana next to him on the stretcher; they'd found it moments after Nick went into the cell.

Nick still felt overwhelmed by what had happened. As he was standing beside the stretcher, stroking MacLeod's hair, he barely heard Richie's attempts to get his attention. At last the younger man pulled him away, less than gently. "Come on! I have to show you this, before it disappears!"

"Wh-what?"

Richie dragged him to a window. And then, breathless, he saw it.

What must have been the most magnificent of all rainbows.


	8. Chapter 8

But a week later, there hadn't been any noticeable improvement in MacLeod's condition. He drifted in and out of consciousness, made no attempt to move or speak, made little or no eye contact with anyone. _Just lies there_, Joe thought sadly, _limp as a rag doll_.

He was lying in his own bed, on the barge; his friends were providing round-the-clock care. Or rather, most of the care was being provided by Methos, who'd insisted he was best suited for the caregiver role because he was qualified as a doctor. The others pitched in whenever they could persuade him that he needed to eat, sleep, or at least move around and get some exercise. Which wasn't often.

Methos, Richie, Nick, and Joe were maintaining a round-the-clock vigil on the barge. Amanda had joined them. And the remorseful Matthew Hale had volunteered to come by every night and stand guard on deck, so the others could sleep below.

Joe blamed himself for the shock Nick and Amanda had received when they saw Hale. _Can't believe I'd never noticed he's a lookalike for Evan Peyton! Peyton was notorious. I didn't meet Hale till years after Amanda had offed Peyton, but I still should've seen the resemblance. _

Fortunately, both Nick and Amanda had already known Immortals could father children. So they'd covered reasonably well...and decided not to enlighten Hale about the near-certain identity of _his_ father.

Problems like that paled by comparison with Joe's anxiety about MacLeod. He'd come up on deck to get some fresh air, and hopefully clear his mind. But he wasn't alone for long.

"Joe?" A mournful-sounding Richie. "I'm at my wits' end. Can _you_ tell me what's going on here? Who I should believe?"

"Afraid not," Joe replied, with a sigh. "I know it's...creepy to listen to them.

"Nick says Mac's going to make a full recovery. No doubt about it - he just needs time to rest and heal. And it's tempting to think Nick knows what he's talking about, because he did somehow know that secret name." (He'd steadfastly refused to try to rouse MacLeod by calling him by that name again. Said it was unnecessary, and might even be harmful.)

"But Methos seems to believe Mac's going to be a helpless invalid for the rest of his life. That could mean centuries...or millennia! And he's the one who has real medical knowledge. Though I'm not sure it counts for much, when we're dealing with Immortals."

"Methos seems..." Richie gave a long shudder. "He seems almost..._happy_...with this outcome. Fussing over Mac, taking care of him. While I can't help wondering whether being...the way Mac is now...really is better than being dead. Is it awful, my having thoughts like that?"

"I'm not sure whether having them is awful, but I know I'm having them too."

Joe knew Methos wasn't "happy." That wasn't the word for it. _I caught him, once, when I'm sure he'd been crying._ He thought back, remembering the old Immortal's latest description of Mac's condition...

_"He's breathing as easily as any of us. I know he has vision and hearing. And he's able to swallow - he can drink through a straw, accept soft food I spoon into his mouth. I think he can sense that he's safe, being cared for by people who love him._

_"He's calm, comfortable, content. He has no memory of the man he was, no sense of loss. And maybe, as time goes on, we'll find ways to help him experience some small kinds of_ _**pleasure**_.

_"That's what I'll hope for."_

A pitifully modest "hope."

He told Richie, "I think Methos has been hurt so badly that he can't bring himself to risk being hurt still more. So he's not hoping for a better outcome - he's convinced himself this _is_ good, considering all the damage the Watchers caused. If Mac recovers, he'll be overjoyed. But if he doesn't, he'll be able to cope.

"In a way, I'm more afraid for Nick than for Methos. I think Nick may be in some kind of denial - refusing to believe that after he made such a stunning breakthrough, the outcome isn't going to be any better than this. If he does have to face that, he may come down with a crash.

"I know Amanda's worried about Nick, too. She's sticking to him like glue, going along with everything he says. But whenever I look at her, I see fear in her eyes."

"I know you were on the phone with the Watchers before," Richie said cautiously. "What the hell was that about?"

Joe grimaced. "I've been telling them the truth. I guess I have...almost a superstitious fear of what might happen if I pretend Mac's doing better than he is.

"So now Molari's concerned that if Mac should have a nightmare, or something like that, he might cause another hurricane."

"Oh, Jesus!"

"And of course, I'm getting different answers from Nick and Methos.

"Nick says there's really nothing much wrong with Mac. All those 'powers' are under control again, even without his being consciously aware of it. His nightmares would no more cause hurricanes now than they would have a year ago.

"Methos says he has so little brain activity that he can't have dreams at all!"

Richie muttered another oath, then said wryly, "At least they agree he won't cause a hurricane."

"Yeah, there is that."

After a few minutes' silence, Richie said, "Uh, about Methos. Joe, I've noticed something. The way he looks at Mac, the way he touches him..."

_Oh, no._

Joe knew Molari and his crew had also "noticed things" about the man who called himself Adam Pierson.

Since Joe had been Duncan MacLeod's Watcher for years, they could understand a bond having formed between them. But the only explanation they could think of for "Adam's" devotion to Mac was that he was in love with him.

From necessity, Joe had gone along with it. He'd said Mac was exclusively heterosexual, and would have been horrified if he'd realized how "Adam" felt. Said he thought "Adam" had been straight as well, until he developed a bad case of hero worship of MacLeod.

_I don't want __**Richie**__ imagining there's ever been anything sexual there!_

But Richie had a different take on that devotion.

"I swear, Joe, he looks at him and touches him the way I do my son. I've never thought of this till now...but I'm sure Methos is Mac's father!"


	9. Chapter 9

Duncan MacLeod woke because someone was snoring like a foghorn.

At least he thought that was why he woke. The snoring was certainly loud enough.

He quickly realized he was in his own bed, aboard the barge - he could feel its gentle motion. Late at night. And he was definitely alone in the bed.

But his special sense told him not just one, but several, other Immortals were nearby. They didn't seem to be moving - so there was evidently no threat. What he was sensing suggested they were all sacked out, asleep, on the barge.

Dark as it was, he could identify the source of the snoring. Methos, asleep in a chair beside his bed.

_Always good to see you, my friend. But this is damned peculiar._

Methos was fully dressed. Checking his own attire, he discovered he was clad in a nightshirt, and - _an adult diaper?_

_Something's very wrong here!_

_Correction. Something __**has been**__ very wrong here. With me. But there's nothing wrong with me now_.

In fact, he felt the way he did when he came back to life after a quick, near-painless "death." Renewed, refreshed, reinvigorated.

_**Could**__ I have "died" in my sleep? Stranger things have happened. _

_Okay. Try to remember what's been going on_...

Even though he had an unpleasant feeling that he wouldn't _want_ to remember.

x

x

x

He thought back. He'd left Le Blues Bar. Was walking along the street, and...

Yes, there it all was. He remembered the attack in the alley. His horror at thinking he was about to be beheaded, not knowing who was going to take his Quickening. Just that it was someone who'd broken all the rules, not even tried to defeat him in a fair fight.

_But then..._

Another memory came flooding back. He'd come to, and found he was being held prisoner by Watchers, who meant to force him into a new Sanctuary.

_Never did learn who was in the alley, _he thought grimly._ The Immortal. _

_But I can guess. Matthew Hale._

He'd fought. He'd argued.

He broke out in a cold sweat _now_, as he recalled the despair he'd felt when he realized those Watchers weren't renegades. They had the full support of the Tribunal. That meant the organization would mislead Joe Dawson.

It reduced, almost to nil, the chance that friends would find and rescue him.

_After that...everything's a blur. But I have a bad feeling about it._

x

x

x

He sat very still, trying to make himself remember more.

Nothing. Just a bad feeling.

_But all seems to have turned out well. My friends did somehow find me and rescue me, or I wouldn't be here._

He slipped out of bed and made an exploratory tour of the barge - moving not only quietly but very slowly, so sleeping Immortals wouldn't be wakened by abrupt changes in what they were sensing. _Though they must all be pooped, to sleep through Methos's snoring. _

He identified Richie, in a sleeping bag on the floor.

_I'm so happy to see you, Rich! But sorry I gave you a scare, and took you away from your family_.

Joe Dawson was asleep on one of his two couches.

_Glad the mortal wasn't on the floor - I probably would have stepped on him. Bless you, Joe_.

His eyes widened when he recognized the two people on the other couch. Nick and Amanda. Asleep sitting up, fully dressed...but side by side, holding hands.

_Isn't this interesting!_

Much as he loved Amanda, in his own way, he hoped she and Nick were becoming a couple. He'd always thought the two of them were an ideal match, with a real chance for a long-term relationship.

But then, as he looked at Nick, something stirred in the back of his mind.

_There's something about Nick..._

_Did __**he**__ rescue me, somehow?_

He was shaken by the reminder that however well and normal he felt, there were things he'd forgotten.

And then he was momentarily alarmed, when he sensed another Immortal on the _deck_.

But...he realized that person wasn't moving, either.

_Almost certainly not a threat. But the weather isn't warm enough that anyone would choose to sleep up there. So whoever it is must be guarding the place._

_Better not go up and risk surprising a "sentry"! Especially since I don't know who it is_.

Suddenly feeling less sure of himself, even aboard his own barge, he retreated toward his bed. _Should I wake someone? Wake everyone? Or go back to bed and wait till morning?_

He didn't have a choice. He got there just as Methos sat bolt upright, saw the empty bed - and seemed about to let out a scream.

x

x

x

He grabbed Methos by the shoulder and whispered quickly, "Sshh! I'm okay - I was just looking around. Everyone's asleep."

Methos needed a minute to collect himself. But then he responded with a goofy grin. "Well, hullo, MacLeod! Glad you've decided to rejoin us. Are you feeling as bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as you look?"

"More so. I hope you're feeling _better_ than _you_ look."

Methos chuckled. "I assure you I am." Lowering his voice, he asked, "Can I do anything for you? Get you anything? Do you want to talk, or go back to bed?"

"Well, I want to get rid of the, uh, diaper! But that can wait. I need to talk to you."

"All right. Let's get as far back in the corner as we can, so we won't wake anyone."

When they'd moved as far as possible from the sleepers, MacLeod said, "Okay - first things first. I assume you know there's an Immortal up on deck? It's a friend?"

"Ah...yes. But you'd better brace yourself...times have changed. It's a _new_ friend. Matthew Hale."

MacLeod gulped. _"Matthew...Hale?"_ He shook his head in disbelief. "I guess times really _have_ changed. How long has it been, anyway?"

"Just about a month since - from our point of view - you disappeared."

"That long? Ye gods..."

Methos said gently, "Do you have more questions? Or do you want to start by telling me what you remember? We don't have to talk about any of it, you know, if you don't want to..."

"I _don't_ want to talk about it," MacLeod said slowly. "But I have a feeling that I _need_ to. Get the difference?"

"Yes. So...how much do you remember?"

He described the attack in the alley (learning from Methos that the Immortal had indeed been Hale), and what he recalled of the Watchers' attempt to drug him and force him into their Sanctuary.

"Hale was going to be in it too, of his own free will," Methos told him.

"My God. The whole thing seems like utter insanity. But..." He sensed that he was on the verge of remembering more. Remembering something ugly. _But I can't stop now_. "I need you to tell me what happened _after_ they shot me up with those drugs."

Reluctantly, Methos said, "You...lost control of the powers you have. Sort of flailed out, wildly, against everything. The Watchers thought for a while that...your rational mind...had been completely destroyed by the drugs."

MacLeod took a deep breath. _"Did I kill anyone?"_

"No, you didn't kill any humans. Or as far as I know, any animals. But you killed a lot of trees."

_"Trees?"_

"You, uh, caused a hurricane. And the wind brought trees down."

"Oh my God." He knew Methos was trying to downplay it. "How bad a hurricane? How wide an area was affected?"

"Several countries. But believe me, it stopped before there was too much damage! And it wasn't your fault. It was the fault of the goddam Watchers."

He realized he was shaking. Methos put a hand on his shoulder, repeating gently, "It wasn't your fault, MacLeod."

And he made himself admit the truth. "Yes. In a sense, it was.

"I remember now. When they were injecting me with drugs...I was desperate, sure my friends would never find me. So I broke the vow I'd made, never to use the powers I'd gotten from the Sanctuary Immortals. I tried to use them just to make me resistant to the drugs the Watchers were using! But then I had this sensation...it was as if I'd opened a door on a crack, intending only to do that, and then the door flung itself open all the way, and I had no control at all..."

He was in tears, and Methos held him, murmuring, "It's okay. Let it all out."

When he'd done that, Methos said, "You did make a mistake, in risking it. But it was probably only because of the drugs that you lost control of what you'd started. And that door might have flung itself open after you were completely 'out of it,' anyway."

"_Might_ have..."

"Also, I think it's possible you still had some shred of control. I was telling the truth about your not having killed anyone! Everyone was surprised when all the reports were in, and it turned out the hurricane hadn't caused any deaths or serious injuries. The way those powers worked may have been influenced by your basic goodness.

"But what you said about the 'door'...I'm reminded of the problems we had, during the storm, with _real_ doors. At Le Blues Bar, at the site where the Watchers were holding you...when we opened them, we needed all our strength to get them closed again. And I finally realized the most important consideration is that _the door not be blown off its hinges_."

MacLeod mulled that over. Got the point.

Even managed a smile.

Touching his forehead, he assured his friend, "Hinges intact, door closed and locked."

x

x

x

He asked how they'd found and rescued him. "I have this feeling that Nick played an important part in it. Is that right? I want to remember!"

Methos told him what he suspected was a sanitized version of the real story. Culminating with the discovery that he'd somehow transcended his own identity, and had to be pulled back into it. But his true identity seemingly _wasn't_ "Duncan MacLeod."

Methos said, "I remembered I'd learned from...from _Cassandra_...that in the region where you were born, in that era, a mother sometimes gave an infant son a secret name. To protect him from sorcery."

_What's going on here? However he learned that, I'm sure it __**wasn't**__ from Cassandra._

_Interesting, though, that when he wanted to name a source, the first halfway plausible name that occurred to him was hers..._

"For some reason," Methos told him, "Nick was able to guess the name your mother had given you. When he called you by that name, you recognized it, and you...came back to us.

"You weren't suffering any more, weren't feeling others' pain. The hurricane ended. And then, you sort of - passed out. You've been semicomatose for a week."

"My God..." He closed his eyes, trying to remember. "I can almost hear Nick! But I can't make out what he was saying..."

And then he was jolted by another burst of memory.

x

x

x

"MacLeod! Are you all right?"

He opened his eyes, to see an ashen-faced Methos peering into them.

"Yes, I'm fine," he assured him. "But I remembered more.

"I heard Nick whispering, directly into my ear. Still couldn't make out what he was saying.

"But...from there, I seemed to be transported to another place, another time. And a _woman_ was whispering into my ear. My mother!"

"Your mother?" There was a tremor in Methos's voice. "Do you remember what she was saying?" Then he added quickly, "If you remember your _name_, don't tell me what it is!"

MacLeod shook his head. "No," he said regretfully, "I don't remember it. But I do remember something else from that place, that time."

Eyes fixed on the older Immortal, he continued, "I felt as if I was being lifted high in the air. And I must have been very tiny, because it seemed I was being held in a man's hands.

"I don't recall seeing anything. Maybe my eyes weren't even open yet.

"But I know what I heard. A man's voice saying, 'Blood of my blood!'

_**"And the voice was yours."**_

x

x

x

After a long silence, Methos said simply, "Yes."

And MacLeod replied, "Well...as long as I didn't kill anyone, it was _worth_ going through all that's happened to me this past month, to learn that."

x

x

x

The End

x

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_**Author's Afterword:**_ I'm not spelling out the secret name because I hope I'll someday have new readers, who'll read this entire "series" in its logical order. For someone doing that, the secret name should be guessable at this point. And it's more fun to guess than to be told! (Hint: My intent was a naming-situation that would be unique in history.)

But...I already have two long-posted fics that come logically (if not in both cases _chrono_logically) after this one. To find all the "explanations" I've written thus far - and understand the secret name - read "Miles to Go," then "Long Forgotten Snow." Both of them are much shorter than this fic.

Incidentally, when I wrote "Absolutely Not," I had no thought of ever establishing what the secret name was, let alone making plot use of it! I just threw it in because the giving of such a name was an obscure, interesting Gypsy custom that I'd read about.

And the father's holding the baby up in the air? The custom, as I read of it, merely involved the baby's having a red string around its neck while that was going on (a detail I only included in "Absolutely Not"). Having the father say "Blood of my blood!" was my idea, suggested by the color of the string.


End file.
